"comprehensible" poems
After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down. Now re-published every year on this day. Seems more appropriate than ever
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice,
situe on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park their sailors,
sending them ashore for R&R,^
they, leavened to disembark^^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
palm tree resort,
along La Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
one white,
one black,
one brown from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited,
as if it had been many years,
since we last had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible, for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common histoire,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only sisters and brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe,
for it is certainty guaranteed,
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their great grandsons,
my embrace will,
exactly the same be,
for I know it true,
there are
no tribes
in an*
American heart
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Buildings for the most part are boxes square.
But Pentecost circles and spirals,
they turn and burn wild.
Of those who would tame
and make comprehensible any fire--
apt tongues have gone titch titch
and beautiful catch 'til words and music
and parlor diplomacies fortify
much which is untrue.
Fear has no finish, even in our dying.
The path is a cliff edge.
Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves
of civilized persuasions. Usher
Earth's children into primordial worlds.
Water shall love and receive us, as it always has.
The naked ground will speak up,
into our touching feet.
Listen to the tongues of the wind.
Unhinge the body, which is you.
Let all creation fly.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
~for better days for the poet betterdays~
mournful tunes play silently, but still too often,
eyes wet but in corners kept, recurring then the
memories, keepsakes, letters, books, small trinkets,
not dusty, but dusky, resting on in-between ledge of a
mountain-sized twilight of well lit shadowy haziness,
edgy dark brilliance, a comprehensible contrast non-comprehendible
tunes that bless with equal measures of grief,
comforting, by memorable card flashes of good relief,
a dividing line, hazy and frequented crossed, a sort of path,
with no destination signaled, as if the path itself was an end,
to a meaning, a solution, with no clarity divined, a division
of sight and insight, providing an ill fitting reconciliation
mourning is electric, morning is electric,
letters, words bottled up in evaporating perfume bottles,
seeking the comfort of dissipation unto a larger atmosphere,
the scent in everything tangible, stronger still yet, in intangibles
that can erode but never ever fail to return instantly when voked,
by vision, odor, a particular child’s smile, line in a poem volunteered
recovered, uncovered, a post first writ to be written, discovered,
when time and place coincidentally breathe together, at last,
beckoning you to places where memory serves only as a pleasuring,
upright mind marker, decorated in chains perpetual reforging,
absent pain, gleaming dreamings full-replacing longings for pasts,
new verses composed, passing, a grand addition to a child’s legacy
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
*Sitting in the room,
Just staring at the clock.
Waiting for the time to end,
My desire to be free.
Observing creatures called humans,
Doubting their version of reality.
Nothing makes sense,
No meanings.
Life isn’t beautiful,
It’s all in your mind.
Nothing can make me understand the nature of humans.
All those emotions, I can’t control them all.
I’ve befriended a fallen angel.
An outcast just like me.
We got this life,
and landed in hell.
We made a deal with the devil.
We traded our sanity for a comprehensible mind.
The greatest memory or the saddest experience?
Or maybe the stupidest decision?
It’s too late now.
The canvas I painted my life on
Became blank.
My tears washed the colour away,
And the emptiness ruined the art.
At least I got to see the darkest lie
my delusion had to offer.
My aesthetic soul,
And my insane delusions.*
All in one and shall be the end of me.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
I feel her there sometimes
Sometimes silent, sometimes not
When she is silent the emptiness is
Oppressive
And makes my skull feel heavy and weak
And my thoughts clouded with
The groping fingers of all that ask,
"Are you okay?"
When she screams, I am filled
To the brim with panic and chaos
That spews from her maw in
Tangled, writhing masses
The sound is almost angelic.
Is she heavenly?
I have never seen her but I know what she looks like.
It is a knowing feeling, or an overexcited imagination?
Long, tangled black hair,
Something is caught in the snarls and curls.
A pale face whiter than bone,
Thin and fragile like china.
Hands clawed and twisted,
Feet swollen and scarred.
A white dress long in tatters slipping off the bony shoulder
*please take me back,
take me home*
I plead but there are no words
Comprehensible to my human
(However extraordinarily mutated)
Brain
That leave her cracked lips.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
what i said:
"you sound rough this morning."
what i meant:
"your voice is lavender and honey and tea time and supernovas colliding with gentle breezes and if i could wake up to it, just once, cocooned in a tangle of your arms and couch cushions and that blanket you keep in the back of your car, i swear by the stars in my eyes no one on this godforsaken planet would be out of earshot of my singing
i hope that tonight when i dream of you--it is no longer a matter of uncertainty, but anticipation--you speak like you've just overslept your alarm and frantically motored yourself to where i am, like is the case today.
i wish you had chosen me but if i could only listen to you speak to me, about anything--rivers or math homework or football or belonging or music or even your girlfriend--i promise i would listen with the beating urgency of a swimmer in a frozen stream, i would savor each word from your lips, like they were the spring and i was the underground daisy waiting for your kiss.
and in precisely three days i will have an essay to compose about a beautiful topic that would consume me thoroughly were it not for the memory of your groggy morning voice, so full of raspy complacency i can't breathe but instead of fulfilling my obligations i will be hashing out halfway comprehensible poetry about you and crying about how i cannot recreate the sound of your voice with any combination of hollowly clicking keys.
you are so beautiful that i could spend the remainder of my life with a five-subject notebook, scrawling 'your eyes. your smile. your hands. your voice' over and over endlessly and die feeling as though i had lived a thousand years of quiet adventure.
you are so much and too much for me and i have no idea why you see as much in me as you do but i will not question it, for fear that if i were to come too close to you, to run my fingers along the marvel of your face you would shrivel and unfurl into nonexistence, like the leaf in the fire."
and also:
"why can't your voice always sound like this?"
and finally:
******* you're attractive"
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
i hope, i try to hope
--to believe--
believe me, i try
to trust in trust i think i feel, or think or know
there isn't any code that satisfies
though maybe there's an uber-uber-ultra-meta code beyond what even codes can mean?
meh.
i enjoy the hypothetical,
Paris in a bottle, fairness for all sentient beings, faith in nothing comprehensible,
an English teapot circles Jove from afar
or all that's uncontrollable, for some all-purpose good to decorate the brackish, ocean truth.
and uncertain science is another case,
mistrusting all, testing daring thoughts with razor sight,
to sharpen speech and challenge all
to flex the truth into a fitness ground on which to stand, objective stern
and method doubt to peer and scan the detail bare, denude minutiae
into ever smaller parts, expanse of raw and empty space attuned,
to vibrant nothingness rebound
muons, gluons, tauons, quarks and bosons --Higgs the boon for popular appeal,
to bridge or monumentalize the science-mystic gap
appall the ghosts that Galileo keeps for company
i enjoy the fantasy,
dragons in a flask, perfect love for all, dancing in the dark in joy regardless of the shutter thicken dust
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
contracting breaths
between the sentences
of those faceless giants
that surround me
without a comprehensible sound
lost
and not quite yet
found
you'll come around,
but only once I've given in
sin, skin, and cigarettes
fleeting hope
and looming regrets
in overcast limbo
fool me once
shame for life
you said you'd never hurt me
but the pain came twice
tell her that she's alone
that she deserved it
she's on her own
well I won't let you take
her voice away
she likes to ****
but you like to pray
kiss and makeup
because there is plenty else to hate
and your ignorance is out of date
your loneliness is just a phase
but hakuna matata is just a phrase
and happily ever after
is just a ghost in the wall
high, tripping, and falling
into ink
into dreams
into distant ****** up haze
of your forgiveness
which I am expected to accept
even when you took away
until there was nothing I had left
an intolerable possibility
that I should be so willing to receive
your gold paved poor intentions
pour them
into my poor eroded throat
just to be evoked
from a bottomless pit
where my insides should be
no clear beginning or end
to myself, or identity
like a blurry negative
or a softly fallen tree
keep the change
the empty promises
the debt and the punishment
but I'm breaking the mirror
and not the habits I loathe
dissociation
a celebration and emancipation
from the tunnels of my mind
winding and finding
yourself
so undone
this is a war that can't be won
without losing
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Poetry written on cave walls
Of distant planets in other galaxies
Is still comprehensible to human
Hearts.
The stars look the same
From there.
They say the American flag planted
In moon dust is nothing but a
Sun bleached white piece of cloth
By now.
All things, it seems, given enough
Time and exposure
Become requests for
Peace
In the
End.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Boyfriend number 1
Moody, tall & grumpy
Heard he's got 8 kids
****** glad he dumped me.
Boyfriend 2 & 3
Interchangeable, doing battle
Fighting for my affections
****** tittle tattle.
Boyfriend 4 heartbreaker
Mastering his art
Olympic flirt, lothario
2 timing man **** ****
Boyfriend 5 flash Harry
A ladies man, so he reckoned
Metallic Ford Capri
He was gone in 60 seconds.
Boyfriend 6 & 7, Hammer Horror
How the **** did these begin
Beer goggles and cocktails
UGH! Just let me catch me skin.
Boyfriend 8 from Down Under
Bit angry, bit thick
James dean Lookey likey
Married him too quick.
Boyfriend 9, pious
Quiet nature boy
Once married grumpy ****
Terminated contract, lack of joy.
Boyfriend 10 professional
Public Sector, comprehensible
Politically correct lifestyle
He thought I wasn't sensible.
Boyfriend 11 is The Man
Mild mannered rampant ram
Sizzling hot attraction
He accepts me as I am.
Now the chase is over
Got him, Bingo, I've won
Hellfire he's got 5 kids
******* glad I've been done.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I feel like you're slipping through my open fingers, our relationship falling like a handful of sand and no matter how fast or hard I clench my fist you find the little cracks to fall through
They say that when kids reach late teens, they fight, and grow distant, they grow to resent their parents and relationships fail, but I feel like I'm something new, our relationship isn't disappearing, you aren't fading into the distance, instead you are transforming into something new and I'm no longer your little girl.
Early today we went to the mall, and as we sat and ate lunch you said the strangest thing. You started talking about your job and about your feelings, treating me like an adult at last. The way I had always wanted you to talk to me my whole life. Like I was a friend and you could confide in me, because I still can't talk to you about the devastation I've encountered, but you finally understand that though I am still small my eyes hold wisdom and the gibberish you think I hear, comes like a melody in comprehensible packages. The codes you have come untangled to my ears, because I too have experienced your codes.
As a little girl I waited begging into my pillow that you would treat me this way, that you would talk to me like a friend. But the other day you did, and something was missing. I missed the way that you used to talk to me with your eyes shining carefully watching your words. The way that you would censer your topics as if I didn't understand the truth.
And now that you do this, that you talk to me like a new found friend you met at work, I miss being your little girl. I see the shinning eyes as your talk to my younger brother, and I miss the days you looked at me with that little kid look. Because now you see me with eyes of an equal, because I'm not your little girl anymore, because our mother daughter relationship has slipped through my fingers and the love you showed like chocolate kissing placed on the pillow of your every action, have been given to another and now my mother is slipping away.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Black, reflecting my negative emotions
And yet, also reflecting soft dappling light -
White light, reflecting my optimism for happiness.
Clicking cameras' clinging onto frozen moments.
Curved lenses
Capturing, condensing,
concentrating, and compacting.
A vaguely comprehensible collection
of inconsequence.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC
There are no tribes in America
after reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land,
I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
ten years hence,
perhaps with their grandsons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.
^disembarked to be leavened....either works
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
The mischief minds of men,
Haunted by their thoughts and ideas;
stuck in their ambitions,
And the search for perfection.
This utopia they seek,
Is nothing more than a shadow;
Comprehensible by the eye,
But unreachable for the soul.
Nevertheless the mind pushes on,
The trail getting ever so long;
It is here we are lost,
It is here we will die.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
You might have seen them through the window,
a little girl pouting on the stool and her mother
behind her, deft fingers weaving the strands
together, chocolate hair in french braids and the
wrinkles in her blue gingham dress.
There is a beginning to everything.
Golden-hair boy, caramel colors glinting in the sun,
pieces that flopped over his eyes and plastered
themselves over his forehead when the wind blew
erratic. He wears t-shirts streaked with dirt and high-
water jeans half-rolled, half-bunched up to his knees.
She thought, I could love this boy.
They're in the field again, ankles itching under her
frilly socks and ants crawling over her shoes. He lets
one amble around on his finger while she studies him.
Holding it up to the light, all serious and squinting,
He whispers, "They are so small."
She remembers this field for a long time.
She points to his heart. This is where I live. He looks
at her skeptically, raises an eyebrow."Is it awfully
uncomfortable there?" She lets the silence grow while
the birds make conversation and smiles to herself when
she sees him listening too.
Sometimes it is cold, but then you remember me.
There are pieces of love scattered around this world.
I have been trying to find them, trying to arrange them
into a comprehensible hope. There's the field. There's the
beach. There's the little stream that carries us where we
need to go. There's you, in that one summer.
It's been so long, but I remember. I remember it perfectly.
She's making a daisy chain while he looks out over the
lake. *Climb the tree for me. I want to see how high you
can go.* Nearly breaking the branches with his weight, he
calls out, in the purest joy you've ever heard to this day.
"You should see this view!"
I do.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
the left side of every entrance tells me
a singer-songwrite about the fashion
in which you once entered a room..
glassing around your iris in false
-search for something to pretend
you are not paying attention to
me as much as you are to what
is in front of you because you care
so much.. beyond a comprehensible
dust-jacket mind-map lick-my-toes
and prove your
LOVE..
I kid, I kid, you love me, you
needn't prosthetic yourself into
a dark misogyny over there.
it's always strange to consider
how strangled you become in
flashy jackets bought forever
at a thrift-shop cash-register
and oh good ******* the
employee is no employee he's
a volunteer and he's been here
forever sweet mr. christie (avoiding
the obvious reference because Judaeo
-Christianity does not make
Good
Cookies)
processing your purchase--
perhaps soon it'll be dollars
to counter. dollars have found
her--
awake
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The broken wings of angels,
They are so hard to see,
Especially when those angels are not seen by you or me.
From heaven they have fallen,
A blessing from above.
While giving up their home
God chose them out of love.
Their tongues silent in battle,
Quiet wars waged within.
Seeking out the lost and weary
To right their way again.
These angels never seeking
To be fixed to fly away.
Content to care for others,
On this earth they choose to stay.
But if their final breath be taken
When their time has come,
No mistake can be made;
On earth God’s work was done.
These broken winged angels take flight for one last time,
From the grave into heaven, where heaven’s bells will chime.
Although not comprehensible,
It is easy to see,
That God broke those angels’ wings
Just for you and me.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
the simplicity of grandeur (what I want of you)
*every conversation, must have a name,
a blessing and a bane,
every poem, twice as much,
twice the same, a division fine
tween the holy and the mundane
an end, a start and
a finishing line,
untitled, it is without grandeur,
difficult to understand,
every grande boulevard, every country road must be either ,
either be an Avenue des Champs-Élysées, ou Route Napoléon,
each with a unique simplicity, et histoire individuelle,
like the persons who traverse it with eyes thirsty to learn
all about those who preceded their voyage
want nothing but seek everything:
the comprehension and the mystery of the next verse,
where the potion of poetic notion came from,
beg that any scratching is genteel, distingué, sans sang,
how you you breathe and see the smell of wet cobblestones,
how you hear them talking and what tales they hint of,
but never reveal the ending-prematurely?
what I want is what you want.
self portraits realized, that each a particle of the mystery,
self portraits that ask, and answer, but forever insufficient,
what is the idea of you?
Quelle est l'idée de toi?
what is naturel, what is imaginary,
to be a visitor in your museum,
your ****** a voice that listens to the answers,
a mail recipient to what ever you wish to enclose,
in the poems that make perfect
no sense, that are yet, fully comprehensible,
grand, in their simplicity*
<•>
6:21pm
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
Lori Armstrong
August 1998
Standing tall and silent, like the Sentinel guards of the Forest,
They appear to be listening to Words of Wisdom from an
Unseen, wise, and wonderful Mentor.
They respond in a shy, childlike, gleeful laughter,
Which is Felt, more than heard, by the passerby.
Happy with the whispered answer,
They slowly start to move in a Graceful rhythm,
A sweet and enchanting Dance.
Their outstretched arms surround each other,
Presenting the massive creation of a joy-filled group hug,
A bond of Camaraderie is their own as they sway back and forth in Unison.
Like children playing the game, “I’ve got a secret”,
They seem to simultaneously hide the Mysteries throughout history,
Yet, unwittingly revealing every Moment in Time
They have ever witnessed just by their Presence.
If they could speak, what would they Speak of?
Would we Understand?
Would we Listen?
If they could cry, how deep would their Tears flow?
Do they cry and we are just not ready to Hear?
Would we wipe their tears? … Or cry with them?
Could we truly feel their Sadness? …Their joy?
Could we share in their Trials and their Triumphs?
Do we dare try, for could we endure what they have Endured?
Would we sing along to their Songs of Yore?
Would we understand the Passion in their Words?
Could we carry the Harmony, …
Feeling the Peaks and Valleys of the expressions in their Music?
Their wisdom in age is Unfathomable.
Their vulnerability to man is Reprehensible.
Yet, unfortunately, Comprehensible.
Their story is one of Peace, Love, War, and Chaos, …
But still so Silent to so many.
Their grandeur is taken for Granted, …
And yes, even Exploited.
Their majestic silence is Comforting, appreciated Individually for their gift,
Solitary in the meaning to the receiver.
Breathtaking is their Beauty.
Admirable is their Resiliency.
Gloriously enthralling is their History.
The Creator’s History.
The History of a Gift.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 11:21 PM UTC
To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.
a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.
the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.
words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.
a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,
like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.
these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.
her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...
waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's
feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.
hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,
and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.
**** it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
I scrub down the entrails
cast now in wire
forcing fast horsehair to form
audible friction,
with wood, metal, keratin, and navel craft
comprehensible tension;
and I study such tension to
form a portfolio of frequencies
from which to draw
and cause
emotion on cue:
to tease my tactile habits
is to hone my habitual expression (they say);
I ask the doctor and take this aural tool
--a theory of not colors but a fifth wheel--
as directed,
and use it to forge links between acoustic flailings
to turn feelings into gears that line up
just as the label instructs.
And so I train my instincts to match the mold taught in
this cramped and unfamiliar womb;
and I teach my hand to tremble uniformly.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
The breeze isn't cool
The breeze is now cutting
It stings like a bee
It slices like a knife
This love isn't pure anymore
It's uncracked eggshells
Oysters that never opened
Expired dairy products
The air isn't filling anymore
There's no clarity
Just beautiful sunsets because of carbon emissions
And oceans full of waste
Friendship isn't real anymore
There's Facebook and Twitter and Instagram
I may have over 1,000 friends
I may have less than 5
Nothing is comprehensible anymore
There's only confusion and anguish
Scribbled notes and blurry polaroids
It's hopeless
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Idealism is comical
But hardly comprehensible
You want to resist
With much persistence
Who you really are
Inside you not a super hero
One that can fix all
You trick your mind
Believing that you can make a difference
That in this life
Others are more important
But one mistake you have made
When times are dark
All that ******** will fade
Selfish creatures we are
Stuck in a state of deep desires
You’re a puppet chosen to play the role
And you can gladly pretend
And stand high on your stead
Pretending your above the laws of nature
But you’re a peasant
Nothing major
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC